Slayers don't get white picket fences
by MysLii
Summary: Sadfic B/S Character death


Slayers don't get white picket fences   
  
  
"No! Don't you dare leaving me just yet!" Spike said, teeth clenched, jaw set stubbornly. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her harshly. She was very pale, blood slowly trickling down her face from the open gash in her forehead. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open...she was barely breathing at all!  
  
The sky burst open over the still form of the Slayer and the blond vampire and the rain started to fall, soaking them both. Her hair clenched to her face and her clothes to her body. The grass next to her was slowly turning form green to red. He kept shaking her violently, the panic rising in him. At last, he stopped shaking her. Instead he grabbed her hair violently. "If you don't open your eyes RIGHT now, I'll rip 'em out!" he hissed into her face. That seemed to cause a reaction from her. An odd, strangled sound emanated from her throath and she opened her eyes a little, staring at him through heavy lids.  
  
"...Spike?" she asked, barely whispering, her voice rasp.   
  
"Good Slayer. I knew it would take more for you to give.." he was cut off, when she simply stated something.   
  
"I'm dying."   
  
It took a few seconds before he understood what she'd said. "What?" he said, anger evident in his voice. "Of course you're not dying…that's nonsens!" he snapped.   
  
But then he looked her in her eyes,and he saw that the spark of life was fading every minute. "Oh, no, no, no, no!" he lectured her, like she was a child who'd done something naughty. "You've made it this far and you're NOT giving up now!"   
  
Her lips curled up in a small, sad smile. Then she closed her eyes. At first Spike thought she was dead already. But a few seconds after, she opened them again. They were blank with tears and she swallowed hard.   
  
"I'm scared" she said, her voice trembeling with fear.   
  
"Oh Buffy..." he said, shaking his head, his voice thic with emotion. "It wasn't supposed to end like this. You were different than them. You were supposed to live...to grow up, marry some wanker and have brat-kids and a little house with a white picket fence."   
  
She laughed, despite her pain. "Slayers don't have picket fences...Slayes don't live past 25"  
  
He was silent. He could hear her heartbeat was getting weaker.  
  
"You wanna hear something funny?" she asked after a little while. The blood still poured out from the open gash in her stomach and chest.  
  
"Sure, luv" he answered, fighting the tears who threathened to spill.   
  
"If I had married Riley...I would have been Mrs. Buffy Finn. Just think about it! Buf-fy Finnnnn"  
  
She laughed and he laughed with her. Then she violenty began to cough up blood. She vinced in pain. "Ow, goddamnsonofabitchdemonthingy" she blurted out.   
  
Spike glared at the leftovers of the Chypocolypse demon. He'd killed it, just before it completely finished the Slayer off.  
  
Suddenly he felt a tug in his sleeve. He looked down, only to meet her big, frightened , sea-green eyes.  
  
"I think this it it" she said in a little voice, tears treathening to fall.   
  
He grabbed her hand, not bothering to hide his own tears. The blood-read drops stained her white blouse and mixed with her own blood.  
  
"Sorry" she whispered.  
  
"For what?" he asked, trying to send her a brave smile. It failed miserably.  
  
"For letting some stupid demon kill me...it should have been you...my best enemy"  
  
"And you've always been my fave slayer" he whispered in a shaky voice. "It would have been an honor"  
  
Then he pulled her into a fierce hug, letting his tears flow freely. She cried with him and hugged him back with the last remains of her strength, her sobs wracking her wounded, dying body. Then she loosened her grip. And a new slayer had been called.  
  
He squeezed her one last time and gently laid her down on the wet grass. The rain had stopped. He had stopped crying. Everything was silent.  
  
Then he dug through his pockets and pulled out something. It was a picture, one of many he'd stolen from her basement. It was a picture of her, take when she'd been, somewhat, 16. Obviously her mother had catched her in a ungarded moment. She was standing on their lawn in the morning sun in a blue pajamas. Her arms were stretched out like she was embracing the new day. She'd probably stopped doing that a long time ago. I'd had been his favorite picture of them all.  
  
He gently laid the picture on the chest of her lifeless body in the rainwet grass, stains of blood-tears on his pale cheeks and new in his eyes threathening to spill.   
  
Then he rose and slowly began to walk, leaving the empty shell of the gratest slayer of them all behind.  
  
  
End.  
  
  
  



End file.
